Off
all the flowers I could get
1001
of silver roses on my deathbed
Was
what I thought I wanted
In
the end, forgetting all souls may wither
The
happiness with the unseen dagger of winter,
A
silver sword engraved with our initials.
So
even you, a lighting striking
All
my mornings as of then,
When
the dew of the sword fell
Upon
her thorn pierced lips,
And
the moon – a shield from the abyss
Of
the night, sung more quiet than blood dripping
On
the chess-checkered floor.
Even
you everafter despaired
The
night I harvested a star,
When
a howlable moon thudded like a quasar
My
pain, a fire burning a hole through the nights,
So
I became the thunder that sighs,
At
the moon during the day,
Prepared
that each lover may come my way to slay.
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